Quest related fic
by unwittingcatalyst
Summary: These are missing scenes before, during, and at the end of the episode "The Quest," and during "A Necessary Evil."   Autolycus, Xena, Gabrielle, Iolaus, Ephiny, Solari, Artemis.   Chapter 2 REVISED, and *Chapter 14* added.
1. Pre Quest

Autolycus recognized Iolaus in the town marketplace, and ran to catch up with him. It would be good to tease the earnest, rather short partner of Hercules when nothing momentous was going on, no life threatening monsters. He was hoping for an immediate irritable reaction to his very presence, in fact.

"Iolaus!" he called out exuberantly just a few feet behind the man, ready with a witty insult. He was taken aback by the reaction he did get.

"Autolycus," Iolaus acknowledged when he turned around, "it's good to see you"—_and grasped his arm in friendly greeting._

Autolycus looked at him strangely, almost suspiciously. He was about to ask what was wrong, but grew quiet at what he saw. The normally cheerful and outgoing—

or, around him, impatient—man was turned inward, and weighted down somehow. Something was very wrong.

Iolaus saw his confusion and stated, with weariness, "So you haven't heard."

"Heard what?" Autolycus said too loudly, really not wanting to know, hoping it had nothing to do with him, no connection, no concern of his.

"Come with me. We'll find a quiet tavern."

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"Xena is dead."

"What?"

"I just came from talking with Gabrielle, who is taking her body to Amphipolis."

Autolycus stared at him. He tried desperately to find a way out, a way for this not to be, to not concern him, but Iolaus continued, inexorable, tired, answering the questions he did not ask.

Iolaus told about his conversation with Gabrielle, told of her strength and her grief, told of his own upset, said what he knew of the circumstances (something to do with saving a child and a large piece of wood). Autolycus took in the information automatically but was barely listening; he was trying to find a way to escape. He needed to say something harsh and unfeeling, needed to find a way not to see the simple sorrow in Iolaus's face, needed—suddenly he realized he needed to get away completely, because the walls that usually worked so well were not going to work, and he was about to reveal—

Iolaus finished and gave Autolycus a sad, grateful smile. "Thank you. I didn't realize how much I needed to talk about this. You're a surprisingly good listener."

Numbly Autolycus nodded, found himself wishing Iolaus safe travels back to Hercules, and breathed in relief when the man took his leave.

Now he'd find some distraction—but when Iolaus left the need to hide his own reaction did as well, and that was what had been keeping it at bay—he had to put on a front with Iolaus, of course. But now—it fell.

Quickly he ordered a drink and hid in an empty corner of the tavern. He completely failed not to think of the warrior and the bard, one gone, one grieving, and he wasn't sure which hurt more to think about.

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Xena's spirit found the thief in a tavern. His skills would be most useful—it was the theft of a body she needed accomplished, after all—and he was reliable. Reliably chaotic and tricky, but also something else, and when she tentatively inhabited him, just as an observer, she knew why she'd sought him out.

He was staring blankly at a drink he'd stopped drinking some time back, trying not to cry—ah, he'd just heard, from Iolaus. His thoughts of her and of Gabrielle were fond and sorrowful; he was worrying about Gabrielle, and wincing at the thought of her death, and trying to convince himself all the while that he could ignore this and move on.

Her spirit self found this all too familiar—didn't she do the same, pretend lack of concern, coldness, do everything she could to protect her heart? He was failing miserably. She was touched. She'd known the thief had a good heart, but feeling the evidence was something else: He'd grown quite attached to her, and to Gabrielle, more than she'd realized.

Now she knew she'd chosen well. And she knew she could begin by giving the thief the distraction from his sorrow that he so craved at present; carefully, she planted in his head the notion to steal the dagger of Helios, and while it took a bit to get the thought established—it was harder than she would have thought it would be to get Autolycus thinking on a valuable item to steal—as soon as the problem was laid before him his mind began working on it. She stepped back and watched with fascination as he obsessed over the details of how he would accomplish the task, with the brilliance she was used to from him. The only difference: instead of the offhandedness or the braggadocio that usually informed his plans, there was only a tinge of desperate desire to escape his thoughts of her death.


	2. After the kiss

_The following two scenes are essentially transcriptions from two episodes (with a bit of description of the how the characters say things). I include them here as a prologue to this next bit of the story._

_From "The Quest" immediately following the kiss:_

_The kiss ended with both Gabrielle and Autolycus staring at each other, astonished. _

_Autolycus spoke first. "Well, I—hope you two worked things out."_

"_We did. Thank you." A puzzled expression crossed Gabrielle's face, then she smiled. "I mean that."_

"_Oh, certainly," he granted, blustering. "Whatever's necessary. I'm here for you both." _

"_Autolycus?" she said gently._

"_Huh?"_

"_Get your hand off my butt."_

_His eyes grew wide in shock as he realized where his hand was and just how close they were standing to each other. They both jumped back._

_He sputtered, trying to laugh it off. "Oh! Can you imagine?"_

_Then his own hand smacked him in the face and knocked him to the ground._

_0000000000_

_From "Vanishing Act":_

_Autolycus wanted Xena's help—and wanted it done "his way." Xena was beyond irritated. _

"_Why would I want to do that?" she challenged._

"_As a favor to me?" replied Autolycus, turning on the charm._

"_**No**__," Xena snapped back._

"_Oh, I get it. What have I done for you lately, huh?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_Yeah, nothing besides letting you live inside my body while I risked my life to steal back your shapely corpse, all the while having to endure Gabrielle whining and crying twenty-four hours a day about how much she misses Xena…" Autolycus trailed off, his voice mocking Gabrielle._

"_Are you quite finished?"_

"_That depends. Did it work?"_

"_It worked."_

"_Then I'm finished."_

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_In the middle of "The Quest," shortly after the kiss:_

Autolycus and Gabrielle again rode Argo through the trees and brush, this time toward the river, where they intended to hide the coffin. Autolycus felt Xena still present as he touched his face where she'd used his own hand to knock him down.

"Xena, was that _really_ necessary?" he thought indignantly at the soul sharing his body. "You were the one who put your, I mean my, hand there. You know full well I had nothing to do with that."

If this had been a face-to-face conversation, Xena would be turned away, not letting him see her expression. She growled, but did not deny what he said—she couldn't.

"We're not talking about it."

"Why? What are you—" he paused thoughtfully, thinking of the tired bard at his back, presently quiet. "You don't want her to know. But—" He stopped, at a loss, but of course she heard his jumbled thoughts, and what was more like a sensation: his awareness of the undeniable passion she felt for Gabrielle that made his own flirtation with Xena look like the trivial thing it had been, while this between the two of them felt like—the earth under their feet. "OK, I'm failing with the similes here. But _this_—it's got a power that would unsettle the gods themselves." His mind automatically ran through all the usual reasons for hiding such feelings: that it wasn't reciprocated, that others would judge...

The presence in his mind was sullen and silent—rather typical, he thought—but he "spoke" to her anyway, surprising himself with the awe and gentleness in his tone: "Since when did you care what anyone thought?—and you _know_ you don't have to worry about whether she reciprocates—I was there just now, I saw what you saw, in her eyes."

A sullen grunt, still resisting.

"And she was more than fine with the hand where it was, as long as it was yours," he pointed out mischievously.

A pause. "It's complicated, Autolycus—maybe I'll explain sometime, but you stay out of this."

"Of course!" he conceded. "I'd never—look, it's for the two of you to work out. I'm just pointing out the obvious here."

"Noted. Now, let's get on with this."

A few moments later, Gabrielle spoke, pointing to their left. "Is that the river?"

He heard the rush of water and saw a subtle change in the foliage. "I think so," he replied, and he guided Argo around large rocks and thick vines. Argo seemed to know exactly where they intended to go. He wasn't used to horses being this responsive to him, and figured it was because Argo sensed Xena in him.

At the river, they both shoved the coffin into the water. He noticed that Gabrielle put all her strength into pushing, though she was obviously exhausted. As the coffin that housed Xena's body began floating downstream, Gabrielle watched it. Though this plan had been her idea, she looked like she was having difficulty with it; her face in the moonlight looked stricken.

Autolycus waited next to her. This was the grieving Iolaus had described, and it was hard to witness.

"Gabrielle?" he said, interrupting her thoughts.

"Oh. Uh, we'd better get going."

"I was thinking, we're going to need rest. I know I do. It's going to take some time to find the cave that's named in the map. What do you say we camp, and get a fresh start come dawn?"

Gabrielle considered, and agreed.

They found a spot near the river where they'd be well-hidden and lit no fire, and shared some provisions in silence—hard cheese and bread. Autolycus was aware again of the aches in his muscles from the acrobatics Xena had used his body to do. He was also aware of Gabrielle, who barely ate, and who seemed to be struggling with something unpleasant.

Not sure what to do, he tried to ask Xena for guidance, but she was elsewhere.

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Gabrielle stared at the coffin as it slowly floated downstream, a cold despair gripping her heart. Watching Xena's body leave her felt like a ripping sensation inside. The euphoria of "seeing" Xena again, the hope that she could return, was fading, and this entire adventure felt hopeless and ridiculous. She knew she was depleted, emotionally and physically, from the events of the past few days—knew this could simply be that exhaustion talking—but still she couldn't shake it. She was about to lose it when Autolycus's hesitant voice suggested they find shelter and rest for the night, and she was grateful for suggestion.

Sitting with food that in no way interested her, she felt her body's deep gratitude for the stillness. She could almost fall asleep sitting there in front of where the campfire would have been, and desperately wished for Xena's presence, bored and sharpening her sword…

"I'm afraid to go to sleep," she blurted out suddenly.

Autolycus looked up with a bit of that perpetually startled expression he seemed to be always wearing lately. He'd been arranging a spot where he could do just that.

"If I sleep, I'll have the dreams again. Xena, dying."

She could see Autolycus's concerned eyes on her—and could tell it was Autolycus alone for now. He was listening, and that made it possible to unburden.

"You know, it should be easier now—now that there's hope, now that there's a way to help Xena come back, but it's almost worse, this hope. I was almost there, I think, with the Amazons—I'd started to accept that she was gone." It was an incredible relief to say aloud the feelings and thoughts about Xena that whirled through her head. She'd shared a bit with Iolaus and then with Ephiny, but there hadn't been much time, and Ephiny really didn't know Xena. Now she spoke at length, and it hurt when the knot of grief in her began to unwind, but it also helped.

Finally, she looked up at Autolycus and asked, feeling very small as she did so, "Did you—have you ever lost someone like that, who was—everything to you?"

For a moment he looked surprised at this personal question addressed to him. She knew from the wince in his expression and his downward glance his answer, even before he spoke. "Yes, I have," he said in a low tone.

"What—how did you survive it? What do you do?" she pleaded.

He sighed. "I don't know." He laughed slightly, at himself. "I don't think my example is the one to follow."

Curiosity tugged at Gabrielle. "If you don't mind my asking—who was it, for you?"

He definitely looked pained now, and hesitated a moment. "My brother. He took care of me, and when he was gone—" he faltered, then looked at her. She saw a determined light in his eyes. "Gabrielle. We're going to do everything we can."

"Yes, we are," she said with matching resolve. "I just don't know if I—sometimes it's too much." She was starting to cry now, and noticed vaguely that Autolycus seemed alarmed at this, but the agony, uncertainty, and emptiness in her were overwhelming her.

She felt a blanket pulled around her carefully, and heard Autolycus say, "Why don't you get some rest? I know you might not be too fond of sleep right now, but—I think you need it." The kindness in his tone just made it even easier to cry, so she did. Keeping control, keeping together—none of that mattered anymore, nor did it matter that Autolycus saw her like this. Nothing mattered then but the chill inside her, the dread that there would be no relief from the agony of Xena's absence.

Without thinking about it she turned to the thief hovering awkwardly next to her and bawled into his shoulder. She noted vaguely that he started to pull back, and then got very still. In spite of the emotions washing through her, she thought with faint amusement of how he'd gotten the blanket around her with a minimum of actually touching her—he was wary of Xena's wrath still (and what a wonderful thought that was, of Xena still being able to act in the world). She didn't care if he was disturbed—she needed something solid and friendly to hold onto.

It was hard to speak through her sobs. "You. Don't worry. She—she won't have a problem with this."

The thief's voice was unsteady as well, oddly. "You're so sure her jealousy won't get the best of her again?" he said, as though he were trying for a joke.

_Jealousy?_ That's an odd word to use, she thought, but she replied as best she could with a parallel lightness in her voice. "I'm sure you're safe."

He didn't argue, blessedly, but relaxed slightly and very carefully reached around to hold her, and she wept as much as she needed to. After a time, she felt exhaustion begin to claim her.

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It was bad enough to see all too clearly Gabrielle's fear and grief, but hearing her talk about it unsettled Autolycus in all sorts of ways that he really wasn't ready for just then. There was an openness about her that he felt wary of in normal circumstances, and now it was getting downright scary. She was a lot like Iolaus that way, the thought occurred to him—but the thief had plenty of ways to guard against the curly haired partner of Hercules—he could mock and irritate to his heart's content, and it never failed to put Iolaus on the defensive.

He had no such recourse with this one, most definitely not in the present circumstances. And she had a way of asking the most pointed and difficult questions, with that open honest face—

He didn't know what to do. He did not want to see, hear, and feel all this hurting in her. He couldn't defend against it at all—and he felt helpless to do anything to soothe. He tried to just stay there, to listen, to not let it tear him up inside. She'd have to sleep soon, and maybe then he could work on his defenses, put all this out of his mind.

But when she started crying on him, he froze, and realized he was done for. There was no defense now. He wondered distantly if she even realized what this was doing to him, and then figured that she either didn't notice or didn't care, given the burden she was carrying.

In spite of his words to the bard, he was actually hoping fervently for Xena to reappear. He'd welcome her fury, even—anything to escape this.

As another sob from Gabrielle shook him, he mentally called out a plea to the warrior. "Help me here! Tell me what to do!"

Slowly, Gabrielle quieted, and seemed to finally be taking his advice to sleep. It was a bit awkward, but not terrible, now—and the night was getting chilly, as cold air from the nearby hills traveled down the valley made by the river, so it was good for Gabrielle to be warmer this way. He shifted them both so that he too could try for sleep and so that she could rest comfortably on his shoulder without too much discomfort to himself. Again he adjusted the blanket around her.

He didn't want this, the damp shoulder, the trusting warmth, the sadness. It was entirely what he spent his time avoiding at all costs. He didn't like how much he understood what she was feeling. He didn't like how it all made him feel—worried, helpless, lost.

Then he felt Xena return. "I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do," he confessed to the presence. Even in his own head, he sounded far, far too shaken.

What he felt in response was more dark emotion than words at first as Xena "saw" the bard's grief, in her still tear-streaked face and in his memory. But then she spoke to him gently. "You are doing fine, Autolycus."

That was a reassurance he hadn't been expecting, and it eased some of his agitation. He still felt like something was stuck in his chest, something he wanted to get away from. Fortunately, he also felt a deep tiredness begin to take him over. The weight of Gabrielle on his shoulder, finally peaceful, pulled him down into sleep, and just before he dropped off he was aware of Xena's spirit keeping watch over them both.

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Autolycus was in a pleasant half-asleep state, aware of the vivid moon and the coolness of the night, comfortably warm himself, and too relaxed even to mind the numbness in his arm which Gabrielle was using as a pillow, when he heard her say something unintelligible in her sleep. It startled and shook him all through, because even if he couldn't understand the words, he instantly understood where the panicked sorrow in her voice came from.

The sound grew more agitated and he felt her shift. Instinctively he reached around with his other arm to her back, hoping to gently jolt her enough into consciousness to break the hold of the nightmare. But it didn't work: she remained sound asleep and yet panicked, and the sounds of that were not something he could tolerate.

"Hey," he said softly. "Hey. Gabrielle." His own voice was threatening to reveal how much this situation got to him, but Gabrielle wasn't in a position to notice that, and Xena—

He felt her presence then. "Xena, she won't wake up. Can you help? She says she's been having these dreams every night—"

"I know, " Xena replied mournfully—hopelessly. Perhaps there was nothing she could do, he thought.

He turned his focus to talking Gabrielle away from the dream and soothing her. "Gabrielle. Wake up. Xena's here."

Gabrielle's breath caught, and her hands grabbed his shoulders. "Xena?"

"She's near. And we have a plan. Remember?" He knew it mattered less what he said and more that he pull her out of the nightmare.

Gabrielle stared at him strangely, confused and tense, then her expression suddenly relaxed, and a joy lit her face. Autolycus knew then that Xena had done something to make Gabrielle feel her presence.

He tried smile back at Gabrielle with reassurance—_see? She's here. _Gabrielle nodded at the look, and then buried her face in his shoulder. She was shaking a bit.

He murmured, "Hey, you OK? Are you out of that nightmare?"

"Yeah," she said roughly. Then, "Thanks," sounding calmer. In the background he felt Xena's relief.

"Good." He carefully hugged Gabrielle close. "Try to sleep. You're not alone here."

She didn't argue at all, and soon she was becoming sleepy again, her breathing even and calm.

Autolycus found that he could not follow Gabrielle back into peaceful sleep. As he thought of the grief-stricken bard he held, he felt something stuck in his chest again. Why did all this have to be so unsettling?

0000000000000000

Xena hovered close, feeling helpless as she witnessed Gabrielle be taken over by her nightmare. She'd heard and seen and felt Gabrielle's fears about her for—days?—time meant little where she was—but to see her anguish again now was intolerable.

Fortunately, the thief woke and had enough of his wits about him to nudge her out of the nightmare.

Xena felt her anxiety settle and reveled in Gabrielle's now peaceful face. She could stare for days at the tired, completely lovely young bard, and her spirit burned with impatience at their separation.

She quietly, unobtrusively possessed Autolycus again to be closer to Gabrielle—and immediately felt his disquiet, an odd, stuck sensation. Suddenly she knew what was going on and she felt sorry for the poor thief. He was still holding her bard gently, but it was an effort for him to stay perfectly still—the heaviness in his chest was becoming too much. Xena looked back at his very recent memories, from a different angle this time, and realized: listening to Gabrielle all evening, seeing her sorrow, and now hearing her during her nightmare, had been too much for him, and it hadn't helped that Gabrielle had asked questions that had led to thoughts of Malacus. She saw in his mind/heart the thief's brother in a jumble of charged memories—he'd been a kind man, no wonder Autolycus' sorrow.

Taking a shaky breath, Autolycus shifted Gabrielle off of his shoulder and tucked blankets around her. Gabrielle, now thoroughly drowsy, murmured thanks and happily let sleep take her. Autolycus watched her as she dropped off, and Xena watched also, through his eyes. The sight of Gabrielle's calm and sleepy face reassured Xena, and she took in the peace of that.

The thief, she noticed eventually, was still anxious—he didn't want to disturb Gabrielle, because she needed this sleep and because he had no desire for his own sorrow to be seen, but he simply couldn't contain the emotions that were thoroughly unsettling him. Xena wondered how she could help the thief with that; in her own experience, when grief became too powerful, there was no holding it back, even for her, though she'd as often used it as a spur to violent action as to tears. Xena also knew instinctively that just then was not a good time to reveal how much she was learning about him, how much of this she "saw," so "talking" to him and trying to comfort him—naw. Besides, that really wasn't her thing, unless the person needing comfort was Gabrielle.

But perhaps she could help. With extreme care, trying for a subtlety she was usually not bothering with in this possession business, she tried to at least ease his anxiety about disturbing Gabrielle's sleep. Xena knew from considerable experience that once sleeping like this (she could hear Gabrielle's even breathing move into light snoring now) not much could wake the bard—and she'd often tried. Xena planted that thought in Autolycus's mind.

It worked—he lay back on the flat ground, and he relaxed with a sense that he was relatively alone. Now that he was no longer as worried about disturbing Gabrielle, the strong emotions in him found their way to the surface.

Xena's spirit instinctively backed off—the images and emotions were too much—but before she had moved away she had three distinct impressions. She had a sense of a much younger Autolycus, alone and utterly lost, kneeling next to the slain figure of his brother—

-and then, disorienting, she saw herself through his eyes—his fondness and fascination for her, and now grief and worry, and a determination to see this plan through that belied his protests and grumbling-

-and finally she saw Gabrielle through his eyes, his awe and admiration of her, felt how it tore him up to see Gabrielle in tears, and an instinctive desire to protect Gabrielle that Xena most certainly understood.

All this, in moments. Xena fled, to a distant place where she could keep watch but not see all this.

The import of the images stayed with her, though. Xena was moved. She wasn't too surprised—the thief's infatuation with her had been obvious since she'd first met him, though the strong regard underneath it was not something he typically showed. More importantly to Xena, for him to care this much about her Gabrielle earned a deep respect from her.

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Gabrielle woke just as dawn came, and found herself well-wrapped up in warm blankets. Several feet away, Autolycus was studying the small woven-together pieces of scroll which held a map to their destination.

He looked up and smiled tiredly at her. She noticed he looked ready to go, and imagined that nearly everything was packed—except these blankets and the food that was set out. With a pang, she thought of Xena, who liked to grumble at her sleeping in.

"Xena probably woke you—she's always an early riser."

"I'm sure she would have, but I got up first myself. I tried to tell her yesterday, my own paranoia is more than a match for hers."

He spoke lightly but gently, as though he knew this might be a touchy subject for her. Gabrielle fleetingly recalled his attentive listening and his kindness to her the previous evening, thinking how much more comfortable she felt with him now. And it felt good to talk about Xena with someone, and to think that what they would do that day would bring Xena back. Gabrielle realized, the sound sleep had given her back her optimism.

And, her appetite. She realized she was starving, and sat up and reached for the dried fruit and nuts.

"Do you know any Sumerian?" Autolycus then asked, preoccupied with the document in his hands.

"Some. What is it?" She scooted over, food in hand, a blanket still round her shoulders, to look at the words that accompanied the map. Between Autolycus, who had acquired quite a bit of arcane knowledge in the service of his thievery, and Gabrielle, who was always fascinated to learn language and story, soon they'd worked out much of the message—some flowery poetry, but also some quite useful clues.

Autolycus pointed up to the hills just north of them. "We'll be headed to one of the caves up there," he said. "See—with the light, you can just begin to see them."

"So, we aren't very far."

"No, we're not—but neither are the Amazons who are chasing us," Autolycus replied ruefully.

"They're probably waiting for us to make a move."

"Which means we'll just have to go quietly. I can help with that—at least until we have to leave the shelter of trees and climb up on that rock to the caves."

"OK, then, I'm ready," Gabrielle said with energy, her actions matching her words as she got up and stowed blankets in Argo's pack.

In short order they were ready, but Gabrielle paused. "We need as low a profile as possible, then-not speed."

Autolycus looked at her, puzzled at what she was getting at. "That's right."

Gabrielle spoke decisively. "I think we should leave Argo here. She can't help us climb those cliffs anyway."

"That's a good idea. But—"

Gabrielle smiled. "How will she know what to do? How do you think she knew to be there at the Amazon village when you—when Xena—called for her?"

Autolycus shrugged. "Whatever you say. I'm just the thief for hire, here."

Gabrielle glanced askance at him at that—his statement was wrong in several ways, but she didn't argue. He could minimize his role in all this if he wanted, but she wouldn't make that mistake now.


	3. Post Quest

Post-"Quest"

_Here's a brief transcript from the end of "The Quest," followed by a brief post-"Quest" reflection._

"_Yes?" Xena looked up from sharpening her sword at Autolycus, who had come to sit near her and who was looking particularly full of himself. _

"_Well, I'm just giving you your chance. To thank me."_

"_I thought I already did. But if you need to hear it again, then thank you—for helping to bring me back. If you ever need a favor, it's yours."_

"_Bringing you back?" he laughed as though at her misunderstanding. "Oh no, no. I let you experience what it's like to be Autolycus," he said, with a sharp thump to his chest. "You were in there. You were controlling my bodily functions. That's not something I do for everyone." _

_Xena stared at this performance in dismay. Leave it to Autolycus to make everything about his self-importance. She began to smile. But, she knew better now—and she had him._

"_No, you don't often let people see who you really are either. I was in there. I know." Oh, he was starting to look nervous—good. "In spite of all your bluster and bravado, you're a nice person." He glanced down in what she could tell was extreme discomfort at the direction her words had taken. She spoke in utter seriousness then. "I knew I could trust you, and I always will." _

_00000000000000_

Xena was smug, and Autolycus—uncomfortable. She knew too much now, things he didn't like to look at, to think about. His cover, and the reasons for his cover.

"Yes…well…" he muttered, looking down. He didn't meet her eyes. "Yes. There you have it."

Then he looked up at her warm, amused expression and spoke, "thank you," in the voice of some other Autolycus, some person he wasn't (or, had not been for some time, since before…since before).

But, he was that person. And she'd seen. No hiding. He saw a kindness in the warrior's eyes that scared him more than her ferocious fighting could. And one word wouldn't leave him: trust. She trusted him. He was well and truly busted. Oh, he could continue the game—and he did, blathered on about the favor she offered, kissed her hand and smiled suavely as he departed—but now she'd always see through it, now it was just a hollow show.

Even "favor" haunted him as he walked away—glancing back to see the two friends—the two so much more than friends, he knew for sure now—she had offered a favor. That meant _he_ could count on _her_. That meant she was his friend—not just a person who helped people, and he happened to be one of them, because she did that kind of thing, or another person he could use or dupe or fail to dupe in a ridiculously entertaining way—but, friend.

One thing he knew, the thought of romance with her was flown completely out of his mind—because what he saw between the warrior and the bard was so much larger.

His thoughts returned to his own paranoia. It wasn't fair. Xena now knew his deepest secret—she'd had the power to know anything she damned well wanted—and he: he'd only gotten a glimpse of her, had only seen what was glaringly obvious. Enough to know she had been as scary and violent once as reputed. Enough to know—quite well—her impatience, especially with him, and her ferocious determination which was precisely the same as her gentleness—especially toward the gentle one, and he didn't have to glance back this time to know the smiles on their faces toward each other.

And he'd said too much to Gabrielle, as well, he realized ruefully—"I wish I had as good a friend as Xena does." Maybe it had been from the shaking up of having been connected to Xena's soul. Maybe that had made it impossible not to see the glowing power of Gabrielle's love for Xena and remark on it. But that didn't mean he needed to admit his own emptiness.

He chuckled to himself. This uncomfortable feeling was humility, he realized: in the presence of two such souls, how could he not feel small? How could he not—he recognized it but knew he must never let it be seen—have the most thorough loyalty to them? But it was too late. Xena had seen. And Gabrielle—she knew people too well, trusted them too much, thought the best of them whenever there was but the slightest evidence.

His cover was completely blown with these two, and there was nothing he could do about it, except ignore this odd sensation, that he always seemed to get when he cared about people, of not deserving them. (That is, when he let himself notice that he cared about people.) If he could just get them to see that his act—his bluster and bragging and swagger—his selfishness and opportunism—was in fact not just a careful cover up of some other self but was in fact the actual underlying truth. Convoluted, he had to admit, but—that was the situation. Surely Xena had seen that, had seen the pettiness in him, the smallness. Maybe she saw good in him because he had never been a cruel murderous warlord as she had been—so he looked good in comparison. Yes, that had to be it. Had to be.


	4. Chapter 4

_Pre-"A Necessary Evil"_

At the Amazon village, Gabrielle insisted that his broken arm be seen by the healer, who turned out to be a crone with shrewd eyes named Demophile. He used his standard charm routine out of habit, even though he'd found Amazons to be rather immune. But this one was different. Like the others, she was amused at him, but she also reminded him of certain folks, especially elders, who'd been his greatest allies when he'd begun his life of thievery. These folks had been willing to spread extravagant stories of his exploits—in fact, they'd done so with great glee, often embellishing in ways that gave him new ideas, (not of how to thieve, but more how to have a sense of style while doing so. He's always wondered if they had simply been grateful for new stories to tell, or if they had liked what he did with what he stole (which, thankfully, he'd convinced them to keep out of their increasingly daring tales). These folks spoke of "The King of Thieves" with a pride that had a distinctly parental—or grandparental—feeling to it.

He normally rather enjoyed this, but as he sat still for Demophile's ministrations, he discovered that, alas, it was not his considerable skills in thievery that she was admiring. It turned out the old woman had heard a frighteningly heartwarming account of him from Gabrielle, of what he'd done for her and for Xena. Xena's teasing was bad enough, but for this stranger to think of him as a do-gooder—that was not going to work at all.

"Ouch!" he complained as she prodded his broken arm.

"Hmm," she grunted, carefully feeling along the bone with both weathered hands, then—

"Ahhhh!" he cried out suddenly as she readjusted without warning.

"Hold still," she ordered, then wrapped the arm at the point of the break tightly with cloth. "That will hold it better in place, so it can heal properly," she explained.

He nodded, dazed from the pain that now receded quickly, as she then methodically began checking him for other evidence of Velaska's treatment.

What had he been thinking? Oh, yes, she'd gotten the wrong idea of him. He tried, as she used a curious smelling salve—odd, but pleasant—on the worst of his bruises, to tell her that he'd had no choice—he'd been possessed by Xena's spirit, he'd been afraid of her and of their queen, he'd done it as an excuse to ogle the Amazon women—and he could tell by the amused light in her eyes that she didn't believe any of it (well, perhaps that last bit, since there _was_ some truth there).

He was grateful when she changed the subject and asked about Xena and the ambrosia, and he answered with what he'd seen and what little he knew.

"A shame none was salvaged. A healer could do much with even just a morsel to strengthen the health of all this nation." Her look became shrewder. Autolycus snapped to her unstated request, and to a way he might rescue himself from these ugly rumors.

"I don't want people thinking the wrong thing about my involvement in all of this," he began. "It could ruin my thiefly reputation, and promote one that wouldn't be good for my welfare at all: if people start thinking I'll do things to help them, I'll never have time for my work. So, if you'd be so kind as to not repeat these—misconceptions you've heard from Gabrielle—"

"You would do a favor in return?"

"I could."

And so, though never in so many words, they made an agreement: he'd steal some ambrosia in return for her silence. This had the additional advantage that now Autolycus could distract himself from his disquieting musings with another job. The value of the ambrosia—beyond Xena's need for it—had not occupied his mind much during the adventure, but now that Xena was hale, he wondered: could there be more, in that cave?

After she was done with him—and, he had to admit, the arm hurt less now—he left the Amazon village to investigate, puzzling out all the while how he could even find out with a broken arm.

What he found was extremely disturbing: Velaska's body was no long there. He investigated thoroughly and found a way down that did not involve the use of both his arms. He found some fragments, and carefully pocketed them, along with the dagger of Helios which had fallen with Velaska. Then he looked up—and from that vantage point saw a way. He was sure there would be more ambrosia up top.

He found a way a place where, one-handed with rope and grappling hook, he could dislodge some of the ambrosia that had not fallen yet.

That took half a candle-mark, and then he rushed back to the village—only to find it in flames, and with a sinking feeling of terror he could guess why.

He found the healer at work in the caves where they'd retreated, and immediately if surreptiously handed her the ambrosia. She'd said she would make a broth with it, diluted, which would strengthen the whole tribe—and looking around at the injured, he could see the need. Wordlessly she squeezed his good arm in warm gratitude, and then returned to her work.

Then, he listened. Xena and Gabrielle were already gone—to deal with Velaska. He found a hidden place to overhear as Ephiny and Solari strategized—they had a plan to delay Velaska, at Xena's request, while the warrior laid a trap for the new insane goddess.

And it was their queen, Gabrielle, that Velaska was after.

He felt sick. He'd just spent the past days with Gabrielle, witnessing her courage, determination, and wrenching grief, and he'd had a taste of Velaska's outrageous cruelty first hand. So, it was inevitable, he told himself. This was just—sympathetic imagination. But, he could still run, far in the opposite direction—

"You. Thief," Ephiny startled him. Both amazons had discovered his eavesdropping.


	5. Chapter 5

"Our queen is in danger. You could help," Solari said.

"Wait a minute. I don't know what you are talking about," Autolycus protested, backing away.

"You heard us talking," Ephiny said dismissively. She and Solari glanced at each other, and then she spoke to Autolycus. "Velaska enjoyed toying with you. Perhaps the chance to do so again would delay her still further. I'll bet she's arrogant enough—especially now that she's a god—that she'd let herself be delayed, not thinking Gabrielle can really escape her. And that will give Xena and Gabrielle plenty of time to set their trap."

Autolycus could tell Ephiny wished it was so. He did too, and he thought it was plausible—she certainly had Velaska right.

"So, will you help us?" Solari said.

He sputtered. He protested. He asked where the profit would be. He managed a display of cowardice at the thought of encountering Velaska again that was easy enough given his very real terror of her, and a harshness when he scorned their naïvete that he'd do this for Xena and Gabrielle. "They can take care of themselves. If you thought I did what I did of my own will—well, you're wrong. I work for profit."

They listened, stony faced, as he retreated, still protesting loudly. Autolycus breathed in relief as he left the caves—and commenced worrying. Gabrielle, hunted, by that insane bitch—the thought clutched his heart and he could not ignore it or shake it loose.

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The thief gone, Ephiny and Solari looked at each other.

Ephiny spoke first. "He's lying."

"Yeah."

"OK then. If he follows us, give orders that he's not to be interfered with—or noticed. We can only delay her so much—if he helps, it'll be good."

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The old healer, who had ways of knowing things, watched all of this exchange, especially the troubled and calculating look on the thief's face when he believed himself unobserved by any of them.

Quickly, before Ephiny and her party departed, she spoke with her young apprentice. Haemerasia was a scout as well as a promising young healer. She would join Ephiny's party and the old healer made sure she would have the supplies she might need.

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Xena could take care of her—always did, he knew so very well now. Xena had a plan.

He told himself this repeatedly as he carefully followed the small band of Amazons. He was just going to see how their plan worked, he told himself. He was certainly not going to put himself in the way of Velaska—that would be crazy, that would not be in line with his own survival, and if there was one expertise he possessed that was equal to opening locks and disguise, it was survival.

Any thought of Velaska made him wince with a cold panic, his bruises and arm twinging. Any thought of Gabrielle pursued by Velaska—that too was a cold, sick panic, though the ache of that went deeper somehow, and made it impossible to walk away, as eminently sensible as that sounded to him.

He'd just make sure the plan worked—make sure Xena was able to make her safe. And if it seemed he could distract—if he came up with a brilliant plan—which was, he thought, quite likely—that just happened to help out and wouldn't be so very dangerous, then, perhaps….

His mind worked on the plan automatically, as he silently moved through the forest.


	6. Chapter 6

The Amazons traveled rapidly, ahead of Velaska, and then stopped to work. Autolycus, having followed them, saw them dig and disguise their pit. When Velaska arrived, he stared, frozen, as Solari delivered her speech about offering Velaska a sacrifice, and Ephiny kneeled, scorn on her face, her sisters holding knives at her. It effectively lured Velaska into the hidden pit.

But, the scene was over in moments, Velaska easily free of the pit, the Amazons scattering. He was relieved to see the crazy goddess did not chase them—instead she continued, steady, on her journey.

"No," he muttered to himself. At what, he wasn't sure as he found a path for himself around and past Velaska, easily outpacing her. If he was going to do this, he had to move now, before he could no longer keep up, before the pounding in his chest led to either a faint or a frenzied fleeing in the other direction.

He didn't want to think of Gabrielle. He'd never had a sister, but if if he had, perhaps this is what it would be like.

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A young woman named Haemerasia had volunteered to be the scout when Ephiny had needed someone to check on what the thief was up to. The young woman reported back to Ephiny. "He's headed toward Artemis's temple—same direction Velaska is going."

"So, he's going to try something. Perhaps he'll have better luck than we did, with that mouth of his." Ephiny announced this to Solari, who almost chuckled. Then Ephiny muttered to herself grimly, "May Artemis protect him."

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Autolycus cringed as he watched Velaska blast the Temple of Artemis and murder temple guards. He looked away, shaking. A half-thought out plan had formed in his head, and he counted on himself to improvise as needed. Now he just needed to find a place in Velaska's path to implement it—and fast, before his common sense and good judgment could prevail.

But then, he thought of the Temple. Would it hold something that could help him? He decided that if he moved fast he had time to find out and still intercept Velaska.

He entered the silent Temple with cold stone walls, hearing only the slight sound of a fountain, apparently still undamaged, at the far end of the large building, and his attention was immediately caught by the imposing statue of Artemis herself.


	7. Chapter 7

A stern-faced woman stood behind him, unseen. She was not pleased. This was the thief who had stolen her bow, leading to considerable chaos. What was he doing here, acting solemn in her now desecrated Temple?

She listened—and was surprised. Oh, she could hear the craftiness in his mind—his eyes searched everywhere, looking for an advantage, something that might prove useful, and she sensed his supreme confidence that if he could find such an object, he could steal it with impunity. That irked her.

But his thoughts and intentions were more. She already knew of Velaska—not just this insane attack on her Temple, but also Velaska's turning on her Amazons, and she knew it was all because Velaska had gotten hold of some ambrosia. That was an unacceptable situation, for such an undisciplined mortal to ascend to godhood: no good could ever come of it.

Now she heard the thief's frightened thoughts. Most clearly she saw—because it was part of a heartfelt plea to her—her own Queen, full of life and the joy of being reunited with Xena—and the thief's fear for her, threatened by the homicidal lunatic Velaska. He spoke low a remarkably humble and fervent prayer for the Amazon Queen's safety.

That alone would have impressed the stern goddess, but she also read his intentions: he planned to place himself in the way of Velaska, distract her from her hunt. He was frantic with fear for himself and, at the same time, there was an unassailable certainty in him, that he had to do this, coming from his steadfast regard for her Queen and Xena.

It was that paradoxically unwavering calm deep inside the otherwise nervous thief that decided the goddess. She sighed, realizing how this must be done—he was a thief, after all. She let fall a bit of rock from the now wrecked ceiling of her Temple, onto a statue of one of her immortal attendants.

The thief glanced in that direction, and as Artemis had intended, saw the glisten of a precious stone—white crystal flashing many colors—in the pendant worn by the statue of a lovely maiden—a pendant not part of the stone, but added later. His opportunistic gaze immediately assessed how he might reach it, but she sensed doubt in him—he was in a hurry, and saw no use for the shiny gem in his current brilliant plan. Then he caught sight of markings below the statue: the sacred attendant's name, Polyboia, and a verse about her magical ability to capture anyone's attention.

The thief looked puzzled, about ready to give in to his anxiousness to be off, when Artemis sighed in impatience again and gave the thief the inescapable desire to have that pendant.

He immediately proceeded to climb behind the statue, suspending himself between it and the wall right behind it, using feet and elbows only. Shortly, he was able to reach around the shoulder of the stone maiden with his left hand and lift the pendant over her head.

As soon as he touched it Artemis let him know its powers: when his pursuer glimpsed it, she'd forget her hunt for a time, and be drawn to a new one. She heard his exultant thought—_useful!_—as he dropped to the ground, ready to run out the back of the Temple. Artemis spoke from behind him.

"She will kill you." It was a casual observation, and as she said it she allowed the thief to see her. He startled—he was a jumpy one, wasn't he?—and looked back at her, astonishment in his eyes.

"Artemis," he acknowledged softly. Then he registered her words, and shook his head with a slight, grim laugh. "Not right away, I'm afraid."

That was true enough, Artemis thought.

Then his manner changed, and his eyes and voice were pleading. "Artemis, Gabrielle's in danger. Please protect her."

"I cannot do much," Artemis said coldly, but then, relenting slightly at the desperate entreaty in his face, she added, "But, I will do what I can."

He bowed his head in gratitude. Then he tucked the pendant into his vest, and smiled at her. "Thank you." A moment later, he turned to run out the back of the Temple.

As he left, he caught sight of the fountain. She watched as his thirst drew him to make a cup of his hands and drink, and she bristled in irritation. How insolent, to presume to drink those sacred waters! She prepared to stop him in order to punish—then she remembered his frantic plea for her Queen, and her ire cooled. Oh, why not. She grudgingly admitted to herself that the courage she saw in him—and his desire to help her Queen—made him worthy to drink, though he did so not knowing what he did.

It could not save him, of course, if the mad one caught up to him. But she could allow it to strengthen his stamina as he ran, and to ease the hurt Velaska would inflict.

"Autolycus, swift flight and thought to you," Artemis intoned, as he ran into the forest.


	8. Chapter 8

Autolycus felt his heart pounding as he left the Temple and moved swiftly after Velaska. Was it because he was running, or because he was completely terrified? No matter, either way he'd gone crazy—that was all there was to it. No time to stop now.

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Velaska strode steadily through the forest. A rustling of branches and leaves ahead—and a sound of yodeling. She stopped and looked up curiously, and saw a glimpse of green in a different shade from the foliage, and then a flash of reflected light. She smiled, predatory. Someone else come to play.

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As soon as he knew himself seen, Autolycus relocated to behind another tree. He wore the pendant now, and he was sure she'd been able to glimpse it.

Velaska looked confident, unconcerned. That was good (he tried to tell himself)—she'd be easy to distract for a while: he'd let her think he was entertaining her.

Mustering up all his braggadocio, he called out a taunt. If he could rattle her, while still staying just out of reach, he'd succeed. At first, she stayed calm—amused, watching.

When the explosion blew up the tree he'd just been hiding behind, he began to feel a tad uncertain about this plan. But, that meant she was taking him seriously, right?

He fled from hiding spot to hiding spot, and then, rolling away from another splintered tree, he set off in a panicked run in the opposite direction from where the mad goddess had been heading—in the opposite direction from Gabrielle, hoping Velaska would follow him.

After a bit he realized he had heard nothing, and looked back—yes, Velaska was there, coming after him. This was working. He tried another taunt as he ran. "You never did show me what you can do with pain."

He caught a glimpse of a twisted smile on her face. Success, he thought ruefully—she was thoroughly distracted now. He might be able to keep this up for some time.

0000000000

A good portion of the day later, he'd learned that she could drain herself of her energy with the explosions, and knew he'd pulled her well off of her path. But, even drained, she was inexorable. He wondered how much longer he could keep running—he felt completely tired, that sensation almost overcoming the terror. He'd managed to provoke her into taunts of her own, which were by turns ridiculous and chilling.

She'd just bragged again on her expertise with pain. From an almost safe distance away, he called out, "All talk! I don't believe you!"

Shortly thereafter, she caught up to him, and began methodically proving him wrong.


	9. Chapter 9

Velaska proved to be more willing to be distracted by him for some time away from the pursuit of Gabrielle than he would have imagined in his wildest dreams—or darkest nightmares. She was persistent, inventive, and skilled—and she enjoyed her work, all admirable qualities for many other endeavors. And she could talk. The ringing in his ears from the explosions—and the screams her treatment ripped from him—sometimes made it hard for him to hear what she said, but it didn't seem to matter. When what she was saying was a detailed preview of what she intended to do to him next, he rather preferred it that way.

00000000000

"You, you are going to keep suffering." He heard her whisper through a pain-filled haze, right by his ear, which meant…

He struggled fruitlessly to move away from her, even though she was doing nothing then but gloating, tried to push her away, and as he did so he snatched one of the small bags she wore around her waist. He felt triumph in his thief's heart. He did not let it show on his face.

"I have a queen to depose, but when I'm done I'll return here."

She wasn't going to kill him outright. He was of mixed feelings about that, just then—a relief from the burning in his chest and the sensation in his legs that made him want to scream would be nice, but then he would be passing out shortly anyway. He thought: she's dallied here for half the day, that should help. He hoped fervently he'd bought enough time to make Gabrielle's chances of survival stronger.

He felt a sharp kick in his ribs—which was a gentle nudge compared to earlier —to get his attention. The mad goddess was looking down at him, a calculating expression on her face, as though she'd just figured out something. He froze, hoping she hadn't noticed some of her ambrosia was now gone.

Turns out, that wasn't it. "You got in my way to delay me from finding Gabrielle." Velaska mused aloud, and smiled. "I just want you to know, it doesn't matter. I will find her, no matter how long it takes, and have my revenge. And I will make her suffer, just as I have you. I will come back and tell you exactly what I do to her, every cry of agony. That's a promise."

He glared up at her. He knew his fear and disgust showed on his face—he didn't have the strength to hide it.

It was only after Velaska had gone, and just before he lost awareness, that he wondered what would happen to him if Velaska did not return to finish him off.

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Ephiny surveyed grimly the blasted temple and the dead guards.

"We'll come back, to restore what we can, once we know all our people are safe," she said to the small group of Amazons who remained with her.

As the rest prepared to travel back, Solari spoke to Ephiny. "What about the thief?"

"I've been thinking of that." Ephiny sighed. All she wanted now was to return to their tribe and see her son, who had blessedly been safe with the Centaurs when the Amazon village had been attacked. "We should find out what became of him. You, take them back—I'll take Haemerasia and we'll look."


	10. Chapter 10

_I want to thank three people who've supported me in continuing to work on this fic: Stardawn 19, storyfan101, and Quinn. By listening to me, reading and responding, making suggestions, and answering questions, you've all given me most wonderful encouragement. Particular gratitude to Quinn for sharing your expertise as an EMT and your library. _

_You've all made it easier for me to get to the point of posting this bit and the additional material for Chapter 2._

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Autolycus awoke to a sharp intolerable pain in his twisted right arm, which immediately echoed in his left leg and foot, and then throughout his body. He screamed, but little sound came out of his dry throat.

It was night and it was cold, colder than he'd ever felt, and the cold contracted every abused muscle and nerve into intolerable pain. He shivered uncontrollably, and even that movement magnified the pain.

He'd counted on unconsciousness saving him from this agony, but no. Earlier, running and even terror had been a distraction from what it had all felt like. He had no escape now.

In fragmented thoughts, he realized how very talented Velaska was. She'd carefully mangled and torn and stabbed him in ways that would cause the most hurt, but that would not kill—careful not to spill too much blood, careful not to pierce anything essential to his continued breathing. She'd also arranged it so that the injuries would only increase in pain as time passed. It should not feel this cold, for instance, even now, at night—the late spring nights had been only mildly cool—but what must actually be only a slight chill twisted muscles into knots.

He could not do anything about it. He could not stand this—the pain of it would drive him mad, had already driven him mad—he would do anything to escape it, but there was nothing, only darkness, only agony.

A thought crossed his mind that Velaska was missing getting to see this—see him broken in more than one way, and then another thought made him shudder and sob. She was headed for Gabrielle and Xena, could easily have found them by now, and wanted to do to Gabrielle what she'd done to him—

Fury and fear and helplessness possessed him then. She and Xena had to stay safe, their plan had to work—he tried to hold onto that, but the pain shattered every thought.

Every time one sharp pain faded, another took its place, so there was never a respite. Any movement was excruciating, and his mouth was so dry that it was almost worse than the pain. This could not continue—he would simply die, yes, that would save him from this—because this was intolerable. He kept thinking that, when he could think at all, but it did not help, nothing helped, and the night wore on forever.


	11. Chapter 11

For Ephiny and Haemerasia, it was not hard to track the parallel paths of Velaska and of the thief, and the intersection of those paths was obvious, marked with splintered and burning trees.

Ephiny smiled when she saw where the tracks led then—the thief moving fast, Velaska following, pulling Velaska well off her journey. Clearly he'd had significantly more success than they'd had in distracting the new goddess.

00000000

By the time the black began to turn to gray, Autolycus noticed something odd—the agonies running through him had begun to back off, just slightly. Perhaps he was simply exhausted, or a numbness was taking over, or he was getting used to it—he had no idea, but he welcomed the greater clarity of mind it brought.

As cool light increased, he tried to take stock of where he was. It was forest, no path visible nearby. He could feel leaves and rocks underneath him, and he looked up at the outlines of tree branches high above. Then he saw what was left of Velaska's work. To his right, too far away to reach, something glimmered in the early morning light—a different shade of red-brown than the leaves—and he recognized it as the dagger of Helios which Velaska had gotten from him again and that she had found so very _useful_. It was covered in his own blood.

He saw a rope hanging down from a branch—his own rope, the one attached to his grappling hook. That had been one of Velaska's surprisingly effective techniques, suspending him by his arms pulled sharply behind his back. It had hurt in every part of him, and that was before the sudden dropping to the rocky ground and the broken bones.

He abruptly turned his mind away from such thoughts, feeling the shock of the pain all over again, and instead, instinctively, he tried to figure out where the grappling hook itself would be, in the leaves somewhere above his head. Then he stopped, and would have laughed harshly at himself if it would not have meant movement and more pain—what use would the grappling hook ever be to him again?

Now that the pain had receded somewhat, the thirst became overwhelming, and demanded that he try to move. He faintly remembered a stream nearby, and his left arm and hand were not completely useless and broken. Tentatively, he tried moving, wincing as he did so—but no, not impossible. He spotted a sturdy looking root nearby, and reached his hand toward it, grasped it with a faint parody of his normal strength, and carefully pulled—_no. _His body convulsed with pain as bad as earlier, and he cried out hoarsely and then choked. Slowly, far too slowly, it receded to previous levels, and he lay there, trembling.

No, he wasn't going to be dragging himself anywhere—he was stuck.

He tried to resettle himself into a position that did not involve agony—a rather impossible task, as he kept discovering—and to calm himself. There was little else he could do.

Now that his mind was clearer, his thoughts returned to Gabrielle and Xena. He wondered what their plan was, and thought how today might be their confrontation with Velaska. He realized with a twinge of despair that he would never know if they succeeded.

He was alone. True, he'd chosen to be a loner, to act without partners. Now, though, he felt a sense of intolerable isolation settle into him. He longed for anyone to come and help. To bring water. He knew no one would be doing so.

His mind occupied with these depressing thoughts, he at first didn't notice the warmth. It was most decidedly day now—he thought fleetingly of the rosy-fingered dawn of the poets, just now visible to him through branches.

He had not realized how extremely wound his muscles were until they began to ease, replaced by warmth, and with that, the pain not only receded began to vanish. The sensation was bliss, as he felt every muscle relax, as though he were settling in to sleep after an exhausting day. He deliberately avoided thinking of his injuries as he lost himself in the feeling. It was like a warm blanket, comforting, protecting him.

Now only the thirst tormented him. His mind tortured him with the memory of the last drink he'd taken, at the temple, the soothing coolness of the water from that spring.

Sunlight made its way to him then through high branches, bright, blinding him slightly. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He suddenly knew how very much he wanted to live. After all that pain, death itself didn't seem so very frightening—the pain was so much worse—but _this_ joy…he did not want to leave it, and he watched the play of light above him, entranced.

Now that the pain had mysteriously disappeared, replaced by this protective heat, he wondered what was going on. Maybe this is what happened when someone was so close to death—but no, none of his injuries were immediately life-threatening: he'd die of thirst before they'd do him in, and wasn't _that _a pleasant thought.

After a while he realized what the warm sensation was—fever. Of course, with these injuries untreated—of course. That's what would kill him. But, he was puzzled: fever should not be overcoming him so completely, so soon, unless more time had passed than he knew about, and he'd never experienced a fever like this, that seemed to free him from pain.

Ah, it didn't matter—perhaps this was better, faster.

He wondered how much longer he'd last. It was not a great ending for the King of Thieves, he mocked himself, to die alone in the forest. No grand story there for his admirers. If he did die here—wait, who was he kidding?—_when_ he died here, he hoped they never found his body. He hoped Gabrielle and Xena—after somehow having brilliantly defeated that monster—never knew. A mysterious disappearance, around which his admirers could weave some fantastical stories, of his own daring and clever exploits—yes, that would be more fitting.

He tried distracting himself with what these stories might be like, but thirst dissipated his thoughts—or maybe it was delirium he felt take him over. Soon he was imagining someone come to give him water with a kind touch.

He had been wound up, so tight, every muscle, that the only thing that had made sense was to scream, endlessly. But now the warmth had made all that go away, and he unwound, was unwinding, into the leaves, the forest floor—no pain, but also soon he'd be gone, unwinding out like balls of string, fraying—

The lack of pain was still unutterable relief, but a deep fear tightened in his guts—he did not want to dissolve, disappear, there was something too dear not to keep hold of—

He reached his arm out into the distance, in the direction where the sun had risen, and he knew he could not let go. _Malacus_, he muttered—he knew with complete certainty then, the memories of his brother were the only thing of value that he had, were all that he had left. _Malacus_, he called out again—and heard the mournful tone in his own voice. _I am so sorry_, he choked out, throat dry, _for all of it_. His brother's death had been wrong, and he'd been culpably helpless to do anything, nothing he'd ever done since—the pitiful attempt at revenge, any of the rest of it—was of any use whatsoever, and if he forgot, that would be the final, unforgivable wrong. He must remember—but the warmth and the unraveling of everything meant he would not, no one would, no one would know—

So this, this was dying, to forget everything, to feel himself lose everything, even the dearest memories of what he'd lost, all of it unreeling and fading into nothing—

He clutched helplessly at the thought of his brother, and felt the treasured memory give way to a stark isolation, felt what he knew with certainty was of most importance elude him with a twisting despair.

Just as everything unraveled utterly into the shaky warmth, he had one last coherent thought, that he would not be waking up again.


	12. Chapter 12

Even with the assistance of Haemerasia—a brilliant tracker, though barely out of her girlhood—Ephiny began to find following the thief and Velaska to be quite tricky. They had moved fast, over considerable territory—and when Velaska had stopped blasting things, having temporarily lost the ability, the more obvious signs of her presence were gone. Several times Ephiny and Haemerasia lost the trail, and had to retrace.

It was a late afternoon when they finally found him. Haemerasia saw it first, and pointed—a rope hanging from a high tree limb. Then, they saw blood on the rocks and the leaves in the glade, and then, approaching closer, they saw the bloodied man, lying flat on his back.

Without hesitation Haemerasia ran forward to begin checking injuries. Ephiny noted that Velaska's trail away from the place was cold—the new goddess was long gone. With this thought in mind, Ephiny approached more slowly, frowning deeply. She did not look away from the horror of the sight. She was used to the injuries of the battlefield, but Velaska's vicious treatment was something different, and Ephiny felt a sudden shame that Velaska could call herself Amazon.

Haemerasia knelt, practical and efficient, beginning to check the many broken bones. The injured man was oblivious to the two of them, to everything—a good thing, thought Ephiny. Burning with fever, he spoke nonsensical things to someone who was not present.

"His wounds are not the cause of this fever," Haemerasia announced, puzzled.

"You think the fever comes from another source?"

"I am not sure this is a fever at all," the young healer said, sounding as though she had a suspicion of what was going on.

The man continued to mutter, and Haemerasia paused in her work and bent low to listen. Looking up at Ephiny, she said, "He speaks to the dead."

That, thought Ephiny, was not a good sign. She almost asked then if they should do anything at all for him, beyond mercifully ending his life. Instead, she waited—Demophile's apprentice would know what to do. Ephiny then knelt, ready for instructions in how to assist in the binding of wounds. Haemerasia, seeing this, with an eerie calm that didn't seem to belong in someone who was still mainly child, told her to very carefully give the man just a taste of water, as she worked on a mangled foot. Ephiny obeyed, holding his head as she let a few drops of water fall between his lips, only to relieve the dryness and wash a bit of the blood away, careful not to choke him with water he could not swallow while still unaware.

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Demophile met Ephiny and Haemerasia on the road just outside the Centaur village—they'd borrowed a horse from the stable near the Temple to transport the injured man.

His condition did not surprise her—the evidence of Velaska's brutality—but still she grew grim. This one she liked. The queen's good-hearted account of his brave assistance and his kindness to her had certainly prepared her to regard him well, but she'd not expected such a complicated person, such a difference between what he would have others see him as and who he was. Demophile was practiced at seeing past people's fronts, including the warrior posturing of members of her own tribe. This one was different, though, than all that, and the self he tried to hide seemed more elusive than most—and more intriguing. It grieved her heart to see such a one hurt like this.

She immediately assessed the terrible wounds and Haemerasia's treatment of them—unsurprisingly, the girl had already set the bones that could be set, managing the daunting task of making transport possible without aggravating the injuries.

Demophile caught her apprentice's alert eyes and nodded slightly. "You have done well, girl," she murmured. Haemerasia's eyes grew bright at the acknowledgment.


	13. Chapter 13

Together, with Ephiny's help, Demophile and Haemerasia brought Autolycus to the makeshift camp the Amazons had set up in the Centaur village. Their friends, kin to Ephiny's son, had given them several huts for the injured.

Demophile directed that Autolycus be brought to a small room apart from the others, and then she began to assess more thoroughly just what had happened to the man. Haemerasia had cleaned off much of the blood and set the many broken bones, so that the traveling had not exacerbated the wounds, but—she shook her head. Tortured with wounds that would almost kill, but not quite—exactly Velaska's style, she recognized. The one who should never have had the right to call herself Amazon had intended a lingering death.

Yet, he was not now in pain—at least, physical pain, and he was warm, but—yes, her apprentice was correct, this "fever" was an enchantment. Demophile thought whose protection he might be under, suspecting Artemis as most likely.

Her first concern, though, was to find a way to get water and healing broth into him safely. She could certainly use a god's help here, she said to herself, grumbling, but knew she would have to make do with her own methods. Artemis' help was rare and always somewhat incomplete.

He spoke then, and she leaned close as he murmured a name—Malacus, it sounded like, and then more—the words not comprehensible, but she could hear grief and love and regret in his voice. Haemerasia was right—he spoke to the dead. His eyes were open then, bright with the enchanted fever, looking right at her—no, beyond her, not seeing anything in the room.

Demophile put a hand on his forehead and bowed her head in respect. She realized that what she must do then might be less agony to him than what he now felt—the fever had not protected him from despair. But it would not be easy. Knowing that the wounded man spoke to one who would be near, watching over him, she spoke low to that spirit so clearly beloved of this man. "Forgive me, but we must do this."

Then, she beckoned Haemerasia closer and explained. "We must wake him enough so that he can drink, or he will not recover. I fear that when we do this, the pain will return, so you must help me."

"I have the broth prepared," Haemerasia replied, practical.

They both carefully moved him so that sat upright against where the pallet touched the wall. Still unaware, he did not even flinch. Then Demophile nodded to Haemerasia, who picked up the small bowl.

Still supporting him with one arm, she put her hand to the side of his face and spoke, solemnly and loudly in the small space. "Autolycus. Autolycus. You must wake."

At first nothing. She tried again, urgent. Then something in his eyes changed, and he tensed and tried to scream, but it was only a hoarse and dry sound that he made. Demophile and Haemerasia held him gently so that he could not twist off the pallet, and Demophile spoke. "You must drink this. Here. You must drink."

Haemerasia held the bowl to him, and though his face was contorted in agony, as soon as the liquid touched his lips, he stilled, and then began to drink with eagerness and desperation. "Careful," Demophile said. "Slowly."

Much of the broth spilled down his face and neck, but he did take in some of it, and he did not choke. As they pulled the bowl away, he began trembling, and though he was still wracked with pain, Demophile caught a look of startled gratitude in his eyes. She wondered who in his mind had given him the broth—since he obviously was still not aware of where he was or who was with him.

His return to wakefulness was brief, Demophile was relieved to see. As they gently eased him back on the pallet, the shivering began to cease. Feeling his face, Demophile felt the protective warmth return.

He'd ingested enough of the broth to make sure healing could begin, though they would have to do this again, with broth and water, to insure his recovery, and there would be a price to pay—it was not good for him to be pulled back to the pain like this in such unpredictable ways, would insure that the terror of it would haunt him. Demophile would do what she could to assuage that, as well, she vowed to herself.

"Was it enough?" Haemerasia asked, looking curiously at the pale, sleeping figure.

"For now."

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After a day, Demophile noted that the wounds had begun healing at a remarkable rate, just as she had seen in the ones who had been burned in Velaska's attack on their village.

They continued like this for several days, eventually able to offer water. Though he did not fully wake, each time he was able to drink more.

Once, after Haemerasia had helped her give him broth to drink, she saw the young woman looking puzzled at the man.

"What is your question?" Demophile asked, knowing her apprentice's expression well.

"I do not understand _why_. We all are Amazons, and we serve and defend our queen and each other. But this one—he has no such obligation. Why did he do it?"

Demophile smiled. "It was not obligation. I suspect it is simply because Our Queen, Gabrielle, is his friend."

"And, for that reason, alone?"

"Yes. Though, if you wish, you could ask him yourself when he is awake. He might say it in ways you would find enlightening."

Haemerasia looked thoughtful, and Demophile was pleased at this new lesson she was learning.

"Have you finished learning about those herbs the Centaur healer was showing you?" At her apprentice's no, she said, "Go, and do that, and see to the others who still need this broth. I will stay here."


	14. Chapter 14

Autolycus slowly became aware of brightly flickering lights in calm blackness and a scent—so familiar, but he could not quite place it. It meant peace, and rest, and—he suddenly knew, the odd smelling salve when his arm had been broken, and Gabrielle had insisted—

_Gabrielle._

All the peace fled, and he remembered his great fear.

He opened his eyes, distantly registered the dark room and the candles, and saw—the piercing, shrewd eyes of the old woman, the one Gabrielle had sent him to.

He tried to get up, but every limb felt impossibly heavy, and a memory of pain pulled at him, down—

But he had to know. _She_ would know. A terrible fear of the answer twisted in him as he tried to speak. He said Gabrielle's name—or, choked it, and he was shaking with the effort of speaking and moving, and how would she even understand what he needed to know?—

But the eyes were wise, and the hands that touched him, on shoulder and on his forehead as he fell back, were feathery soft, old, and kind.

"Queen Gabrielle is safe," she spoke, and then said the same words again, seeming to know he needed to hear them, over and over, until he could believe. She continued, "Gabrielle and Xena returned to the Amazons and told of their defeat of Velaska. They are well."

He knew he was staring wildly at her, wanting to believe her, wanting for this to be real. The dark eyes met his gaze as she repeated the words, and the old hands somehow steadied him, somehow calmed the pounding of his heart.

"Gabrielle is safe," he spoke hoarsely, wonderingly, and felt himself smile. The old woman returned his smile.

"She is."

A knot that had been wound in him for—he didn't know how long it had been, but since he'd first heard Velaska hunted Gabrielle—slowly began to loosen. He closed his eyes a moment, and the old woman—he remembered her, she was Demophile, the Amazon healer—stayed with him, waited.

When he opened his eyes again, Demophile, still patient, now held his right hand in her two hands—but, wait, how—? He remembered that hand, what had been left of it, had tried not to look at it after—

He was afraid to look now, but warily did so, lifting it slightly.

No pain. No blood. No visible bones. His hand—his arm—was whole. He tried squeezing the old woman's hand that helped him hold his own up now, and watched his fingers move—weak, yes, very weak, but he could move them.

He looked his wondering question at Demophile, who was smiling at him, pleased. "Your healing has progressed greatly."

At this, Autolycus tentatively felt several of the deepest and most agonizing gashes he remembered. Now—nothing—he couldn't feel or see even faint scars. Similarly, he tried moving his legs and feet—and though a heavy tiredness made all movement slow, there was no pain, no more twisted limbs or broken bones. "How?" He managed. The full memory of lying on the forest floor, unable to move, had returned to him, along with a fear that froze him in place.

Demophile reached to a nearby table where several items lay. The dagger of Helios. A pendant with a white crystal. His grappling hook and rope—he smiled as he recognized them, so ordinary and familiar. What she picked up, however, was a small pouch. As she brought it to him, he remembered—he had taken it from Velaska, just before she had left, one of her several pouches of ambrosia.

The expression on Demophile's face was now crafty, and Autolycus recalled the other ambrosia he'd retrieved for her. He started to wonder—

"The broth you've been drinking has a small amount of ambrosia." At his slightly alarmed look she added, "Do not worry. So very little will not make you immortal. But, it has allowed your body to heal itself of grievous wounds."

At the word "broth" something felt itchy in his throat, and he realized he was thirsty—had been thirsty, for such a very long time.

Demophile seemed to have the uncanny ability to read his mind, for now she picked up a small bowl of liquid and set it nearby. Then she spoke. "Would you allow me to assist you in sitting up? I would like to give you more of this broth."

He was only too happy to allow, and found that her great age and the thinness of her hands in no way prepared him for how strong she was. Supported in part by the wall and in part by her own shoulder and arm, he watched her hand him the bowl, which he used both hands for, and even then they shook. Her own hand steadied the bowl underneath, and he lifted it to drink, and nothing had ever tasted so good before. Even so, the taste—sweet and substantial and salty and with a strange and pleasant bitterness—was familiar. This was not the first time, clearly, that he'd drunk this, just the first that he'd been awake for it.

He finished it and felt satisfied, smiling his thanks to Demophile. He put his arms down with relief—he'd barely had enough strength to hold the bowl up.

Demophile looked immensely pleased as she set the bowl aside. "Do you wish to rest now?" she asked, with an odd formality that didn't seem to match the warmth in her eyes.

He was overwhelmingly and blissfully tired. "Yes," he replied, and found his voice had begun to return.

She helped him lie down again, and Autolycus knew he'd be sound asleep soon, but he had so many questions. "How long?"

Her answer, given in the phases of the moon, told him four or five days had passed. He tried again to speak—wanting to know how he came to be here, how she came to be taking care of him this way, but he felt so very tired.

"We will have much time to tell all the stories we need to," she replied even though he had not been able to speak, with a squeeze to his hand. His questions must be in his eyes, he thought. "For now, know that you and the ones you have worried over are safe, and you are not alone."

Her words, and the hand that held his, chased away some distant horror. He fell into sleep feeling their truth.


End file.
